A cluster of forty
cows on the hillside,
sixty acres of farmland
sunned—they stand
together. Fly-darkened
bodies break bright
green into brown.
It is March. March
is nearly over. The cows
could be anywhere
within the sixty acres
& yet they stand
so close. They look
at you. You are back
after a decade, now.
Go ahead, say what
you’ve been brewing.
Put your mouth
on the mouth of the
nightmare—cut
your teeth
on its hand, cut your hand
on its face. Bellow madly
at your knees. The man
you thought you’d marry
cut his hair, lost his
face, left you here. Now
a new head inhabits
your lap & that head
too dissolves into
sound. Strange cows.
How certainly they interrupt
you, dismiss a corrupted
form in this domestic
arena. Intentionless—
you. Easy, now—
where does your good go
to be buried. What forces
break your jaw. That face
swells so close—so pale—
what spell brought it here—
years. It’s been years & still
—you cannot figure
the orientation of your heart.
Xiadi Zhai is from Boston, Massachusetts. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, she has recent or forthcoming work in Bennington Review, DIALOGIST, F(r)iction, MudRoom, and Quarterly West, among others.
